Poems by Jordan A. Leturgez

In the hush of twilight's tender embrace,
Where shadows dance and dreams interlace,
There rings a sound, sweet as a spell,
A whisper of magic--silver bells.

They chime through the air, soft and clear,
Notes woven with hope, a song we hold dear.
A shimmer that glistens on crisp winter nights,
A tapestry woven with shimmering lights.

Each toll tells a tale of the years gone by,
Of laughter and love beneath vast, starry sky.
They summon the memories, fragile yet bright,
Of children in snow, their faces alight.

With hearts like the chiming, they echo and swell,
The joy of the moment, the stories they tell.
The frost-kissed air carries secrets anew,
Embracing the warmth of the bonds that we grew.

As softly they ring, like a lover's soft sigh,
Calling us home where the sweet spirits fly.
They bring forth the peace that the season bestows,
A symphony echoing as soft as a rose.

So listen, dear friend, as the silver bells chime,
Let their melody cradle you, timeless as rhyme.
In this world full of chaos, be still and behold,
The magic they weave, in their shimmering gold.

In the quiet hush of dawn's first light,
When shadows flee and dreams take flight,
I gather words like petals rare,
To weave a tapestry of praise laid bare.

With whispers soft, like a summer breeze,
I turn my gaze to the swaying trees,
And in their motion--graceful, true--
I find a rhythm, a song anew.

Praise is my craft, my heart's own beat,
In the mundane, I find the sweet--
The glimmer in a stranger's smile,
The warmth of kindness that makes life worthwhile.

For every heartbeat, for every sigh,
In the laughter that dances and the tears that dry,
I gather the moments, both small and grand,
And spin them into gold with a gentle hand.

Praise for the mountains that touch the sky,
Praise for the rivers that sing as they fly,
Praise for the love that binds us tight,
For hope that flickers, igniting the night.

In every sorrow that stirs the soul,
In every triumph that makes us whole,
I pen the verses that rise and fall--
A hymn of gratitude, a fervent call.

So let my heart be the vessel, true,
As I cradle the world in praises new;
For in each word, a spark I find,
A bridge of beauty, intertwined.

In a life well-lived, in the breath we share,
In the simple act of showing we care--
A poetry of praise is what I do,
To honor the light that shines in you.

There is a drum in the chest -- not asking permission,
only keeping time with the slow tilt of the world.
Morning folds itself into the palms of your hands,
coffee cooling like a promise you almost kept;
the city exhales, a map of small fires and small mercies,
and somewhere a child learns the fierce geometry of falling.

The river does not consult the stones before it passes,
it remembers every grief and every name
and carries both like pebbles in bright mouths.
Light finds cracks in the ordinary and pours through,
insistent as forgiveness, as stubborn as a lighthouse
that has no business still calling ships home.

Love is kinetic -- a language of repeated gestures,
notes returned in the margin of a day. Loss is kinetic too:
it arranges itself into the furniture and the silence,
sits in your chair as if it had always lived there,
learns the cadence of your hands at the sink,
keeps visiting at the hour you thought was private.

It never stops: the turning of seasons, the folding of maps
we thought we'd read through. It never stops:
the naming of things, the singeing of hope and the rescue,
the ringing of keys, the making of beds, the letting go,
the beginning and the small remaking after ruin.
We are paper boats on a rain that insists on rising.

Sometimes it is tenderness that will not pause,
a stranger's umbrella given without explanation;
sometimes it is the ache that rehearses itself at night,
a slow metronome beneath the ribs. Both keep time,
both insist on being lived through. We are not finished
with what we are learning to be -- not yet, not ever.

Stand, if you can, with your palms open to the noise:
the endless work of love, the stubborn chorus of sorrow,
the quiet repairs, the sudden laugh that undoes you.
There is a pulse in everything that breathes and breaks,
and even in breaking, something decides to continue.
Listen: it never stops -- and for now, that is a way to live.

Midnight breathes like a softened bell --
a hush of smoke and hopeful glass raised to the sky.
We fold the year into the palm of memory,
watching old mistakes turn to ash that glows
a little warmer than we expected.

Streetlight confetti, socks of laughter,
someone's tired song made bright by strangers' voices.
We count backwards and then forward, a small miracle:
seconds unhooked from regret,
seconds rewired to possibility.

There are pockets of grief we tuck beneath our coats,
buttons sewn over cracks -- not to hide but to keep warm.
Resolutions arrive as quiet visitors,
bearing simple gifts: a promise to be kinder,
a vow to listen to the soft things first.

A child unfurls the future like a paper boat,
and in the steam of hot coffee, futures steam too --
some will sing, some will stumble, some will arrive
with maps of scars that read like constellations.
New cheer is not the absence of pain;
it is the courage to light a match anyway.

So we step across midnight's thin line,
carrying last year's lessons like careful luggage,
and release what refuses to bend.
The sky fills with tiny suns of laughter,
and for a brief, shaking moment we believe
in beginnings as if they were prayers answered.

Hold this cheer like an ember in your palm:
tend it with truth, feed it with small acts.
By morning, the city will be ordinary again,
but something in us will remain brightened --
a single room lit from within,
ready to meet the quieter miracles of the year.

We stoke them like small rebellions -- palms cupped
around sparrows of ember, feeding breath until
the hush refuses to stay. Night bends closer,
curious as a cat, and the first sparks remember
their names: longing, ruin, tenderness.

They do not burn politely. They roar
through the corridors of ordinary days,
igniting the curtains of routine, leaving
maps of light on the floorboards. We walk them
like pilgrims, barefoot on coals that glow
with old maps of what we swore we'd become.

Sometimes the blaze scours us clean -- a bright
surgery that leaves scent of cedar and salt.
Sometimes it devours the furniture of habit,
leaving only ash and a single, stubborn ember
that glows like a promise we forgot to keep.

Love is not a candle: it is a wildfire that learns
to read our faces, to chase the syllables of our laughter,
to tender the bones that feared to be touched.
It feeds on the moon's reflection in your coffee,
on the silence after a storm. It is both anthem and warning.

So we hold each other like flint and tinder,
knowing that to strike is to change forever:
to walk out incandescent, to walk home rebuilt,
to carry, beneath our ribs, a geography of light --
hearts on fire, not to consume us, but to show us what will still burn.

There is a humility in the size of things:
a cup cradled in two hands, steam
that remembers the shape of your palms.
Think small, and the world fits --
a porch light, a book opened at midnight,
the slow exactness of a single, ordinary day.

To think small is to learn the grain
of wood, the contour of your own patience.
It is noticing the way rain scolds the windows
and then forgives them. It is keeping a map
of the streets that lead to your mother's kitchen,
memorizing the sound of laughter in one room.

But small thinking can be a fence, too --
a line that narrows horizons into neat, safe boxes.
It trims the wild edges until only the comfortable remains,
tethers wonder to routine and calls it wisdom.
When fear lives in small thinking, it shrinks the moon,
makes risk an expensive superstition.

Still, there is courage in choosing small:
to plant one tomato and watch it learn sunlight,
to hold one hand through one long conversation,
to refuse the constant roar that promises more.
Living small can be a radical act of focus,
an economy of love, a devotion to depth over display.

So let your smallness be generous:
pamper detail with attention, let tenderness grow,
allow the tiny things to teach you scale.
Keep room for sudden expansion -- a kindness that widens,
a door left open to the sky. Think small to sharpen sight,
live small to feel everything close and true.

In shadows deep where whispers creep,
The heartbeats echo, secrets keep;
Each dawn awakens, like a fight,
In quiet corners, wrong and right.

The armor built of fear and doubt,
In every child, in every shout;
We craft our shields from words unspoken,
A fragile bond, a heart unbroken.

Yet battles rage in hidden eyes,
A mother's prayer, a father's sighs;
The struggle not with sword or flame,
But with the world that feels like shame.

For safety is a fortress high,
Built with soft hugs and lullabies,
Yet storms may come with merciless rain,
And dreams feel shackled with unseen chains.

But rise we will, with hands entwined,
In every heart, the brave aligned;
For love can turn the tides of fear,
And from our wounds, we'll forge what's dear.

In every whisper, every plea,
In streets of sorrow, fields of glee;
We'll sow the seeds of hope anew,
For safety battles start with you.

So let the lights of courage burn,
With every twist, a chance to learn;
Together, we'll unfurl the skies,
In unity, our spirits rise.

The pen, the shield, the voice, the song,
In safety's name, we all belong;
In every heart, a warrior's tale,
Through love and trust, we shall prevail.

In shadows deep where shadows blend,
A whispered pact, a silent mend,
Where dreams take flight on tethered wings,
A commission to the heart that sings.

With ink like stardust, the quill takes flight,
Tracing paths through the long, dark night.
Words, like fireflies, dance and dart,
Each flicker igniting a yearning heart.

Oh, noble task, to carve out meaning,
From chaos stirred, to find the gleaning.
In the echo of silence, we seek the song,
As whispered hopes, both fragile and strong.

Gather the fragments, the world's sweet pain,
In verses woven, like drops of rain.
Each line a fulcrum, a bridge to cross,
Turning despair into joyous gloss.

Speak for the voiceless, the lost and the shamed,
For in every soul, deserving, unnamed,
A story is waiting, a cavern of light,
To break through the darkness, to ignite the night.

The commission, dear poet, is more than a role,
It's the art of connecting, the stitching of soul.
So pen down your truths, let the ink spill wide,
For in every heart's tale, the universe hides.

Let every stanza be a lighthouse flame,
A guiding light through the shadows of shame.
For when the world whispers, "You cannot, you shan't,"
In the flicker of verses, we dream and we chant.

So gather your courage, let your heart take flight,
In the service of beauty, let us unite.
For the commission of poetry is never in vain--
It's a spark of the cosmos, a balm for the pain.

In the heart of a bustling town,
Where dreams weave through the sunrise crown,
There's a whisper soft as the morning breeze,
Of paths untraveled, of simple keys.

With ink-stained fingers and hopeful eyes,
We pen our futures beneath vast skies,
Each word a step, each thought a spark,
Illuminating ways once shrouded in dark.

Gone are the shackles of a nine-to-five,
Where monotony dulled our spirit alive,
For in the canvas of passion we paint,
A tapestry rich, where doubts grow faint.

Ideas dance like fireflies at dusk,
At the heart of each challenge lies hidden trust,
In laughter and failure, we nurture growth,
The seeds of success, with care, we scoth.

Through simple tasks, like seeds in the sun,
We find the joy in what can be done,
Conversations that flow, connections that gleam,
Manifesting dreams, stitching life's seam.

Every effort a melody, strong and sweet,
In the rhythm of heartbeats, we find our beat,
With kindness as currency, we barter and share,
Earning made easy, in love and in care.

So let us rise with the dawn's gentle light,
Embrace the journey, hold tight to our might,
For in this equation of life and of tears,
Earning made easy dispels all our fears.

Let creativity flourish, let passion unfurl,
In the market of dreams, let each vision whirl,
In every small triumph, in each little deed,
We'll harvest a fortune that none can impede.

In the twilight's breath where shadows play,
With a flicker of ember, the night veers astray.
We gather our courage, we dance on the edge,
Each spark is a whisper, a bond we allege.

With hands like a painter, we sculpt the glow,
Legends awaken where wild forces flow.
The flames leap and twirl in an eager embrace,
Temptation unwinds in this dangerous space.

Is it chaos we crave, or a passion ignites?
With each crackling pop, we conjure delights.
We reach for the heat, and the heat pulls us near,
In the warmth of its laughter, we shed every fear.

But oh, the allure is a fickle deceiver,
Each touch is a promise, each flicker a fever.
In the heart of the blaze, where shadows conspire,
We risk it all boldly, playing with fire.

Yet, within the inferno lies beauty concealed,
A phoenix that rises, its past revealed.
From ashes of caution, our spirits take flight,
In burning, we learn of the darker and light.

So we dance with our desires, wrapped in the smoke,
With every deep breath, we're tethered, yet broke.
For who among us can truly deny
The life that we breathe when we play with the fire?